Janet's Love and Service Part 67

Arthur saw nothing wrong. It was laughable, and irritating, too, sometimes, to see how blind he was. But it was far better he did not.

I can see that now."

"Well, we went on in this way a while. I daresay a good deal of it was my fault. I think I was patient and forbearing, and I am quite sure I gave f.a.n.n.y her own place from the very first. But I was not cheerful, partly because of the changes, and all these little things, and partly for other reasons. And I am not demonstrative in my friendliness, like Rosie, you know. f.a.n.n.y soon came to be quite frank and nice with Rosie, and, by and by, with me too. And now, everything goes on just as it ought with us. There is no coldness between us, and you must not think there is, or that it is because of f.a.n.n.y I must go away."

She paused, and began to arrange the lamp.

"Never mind the light, dear, unless your work canna be left," said Mrs Snow; and in a little Graeme came and sat down again.

"And about f.a.n.n.y's not being good enough for Arthur," she went on. "If people really love one another, other things don't seem to make so much difference. Arthur is contented. And Janet, I don't think I am altogether selfish in my wish to go away. It is not entirely for my own sake. I think it would be better, for them both to be left to each other for a little while. If f.a.n.n.y has faults, it is better that Arthur should know them for the sake of both--that he may learn to have patience with them, and that she may learn to correct them. It is partly for them, as well as for Rose and me. For myself, I must have a change."

"You didna use to weary for changes. What is the reason now? You may tell me, dear, surely. There can be no reason that I may not know?"

Janet spoke softly, and laid her hand lovingly on that of Graeme.

"Oh! I don't know: I cannot tell you," she cried, with a sudden movement away from her friend. "The very spirit of unrest seems to have gotten possession of me. I am tired doing nothing, I suppose. I want real earnest work to do, and have it I will." She rose hastily, but sat down again.

"And so you think you would like to keep a school?" said Mrs Snow, quietly.

"Oh! I don't know. I only said that, because I did not know what else I could do. It would be work."

"Ay. School-keeping is said to be hard work, and thankless, often. And I daresay it is no better than it is called. But, my dear, if it is the work you want, and not the wages, surely among the thousands of this great town, you might find something to do, some work for the Lord, and for his people. Have you never thought about working in that way, dear?"

Graeme had thought of it many a time. Often had she grieved over the neglected little ones, looking out upon her from narrow lanes and alleys, with pale faces, and great hungry eyes. Often had the fainting hearts of toilers in the wretched places of the city been sustained and comforted by her kind words and her alms-deeds. There were many humble dwellings within sight of her home, where her face came like sunlight, and her voice like music. But these were the pleasures of her life, enjoyed in secret. This was not the work that was to make her life worthy, the work for G.o.d and man that was to fill the void in her life, and still the pain in her heart. So she only said, quietly,--

"It is not much that one can do. And, indeed, I have little time that is not occupied with something that cannot be neglected, though it can hardly be called work. I cannot tell you, but what with the little things to be cared for at home, the visits to be made, and engagements of one kind or other, little time is left. I don't know how I could make it otherwise. My time is not at my own disposal."

Mrs Snow a.s.sented, and Graeme went on.

"I suppose I might do more of that sort of work--caring for poor people, I mean, by joining societies, and getting myself put on committees, and all that sort of thing, but I don't think I am suited for it, and there are plenty who like it. However, I daresay, that is a mere excuse.

Don't you mind, Janet, how Mrs Page used to labour with me about the sewing meetings."

"Yes, I mind," said Mrs Snow, with the air of one who was thinking of something else. In a little she said, hesitatingly:

"Miss Graeme, my dear, you speak as though there were nothing between living in your brother's house, and keeping a school. Have you never glanced at the possibility that sometime you may have a house of your own to keep."

Graeme laughed.

"Will said that to me once. Yes, I have thought about it. But the possibility is such a slight one, that it is hardly worth while to take it into account in making plans for the future."

"And wherefore not?" demanded Mrs Snow.

"Wherefore not?" echoed Graeme. "I can only say, that here I am at six and twenty; and the probabilities as to marriage don't usually increase with the years, after that. f.a.n.n.y's fears on my account have some foundation. Janet, do you mind the song foolish Jean used to sing?

"'The lads that cast a glance at me I dinna care to see, And the lads that I would look at Winna look at me.'

"Well, dear, you mustna be angry though I say it, but you may be ower ill to please. I told you that before, you'll mind."

"Oh! yes, I mind. But I convinced you of your error. Indeed, I look upon myself as an object for commiseration rather than blame; so you mustna look cross, and you mustna look too pitiful either, for I am going to prove to you and f.a.n.n.y and all the rest that an old maid is, by no means, an object of pity. Quite the contrary."

"But, my dear, it seems strange-like, and not quite right for you to be setting your face against what is plainly ordained as woman's lot. It is no' ay an easy or a pleasant one, as many a poor woman kens to her sorrow; but--"

"But, Janet, you are mistaken. I am not setting my face against anything; but why should you blame me for what I canna help? And, besides, it is not ordained that every woman should marry. They say married-life is happier, and all that; but a woman may be happy and useful, too, in a single life, even if the higher happiness be denied her."

"But, my dear, what ailed you at him you sent away the other week--him that Rosie was telling me of?"

"Rosie had little to do telling you anything of the kind. Nothing particular ailed me at him. I liked him very well till--. But we won't speak of it."

"Was he not good enough? He was a Christian man, and well off, and well-looking. What said your brother to your refusal?" persisted Janet.

"Oh! he said nothing. What could he say? He would have known nothing about it if I had had my will. A woman must decide these things for herself. I did what I thought right. I could not have done otherwise."

"But, my love, you should consider--"

"Janet, I did consider. I considered so long that I came very near doing a wrong thing. Because he was Arthur's friend, and because it seems to be woman's lot, and in the common course of things, and because I was restless and discontented, and not at peace with myself, and nothing seemed to matter to me, I was very near saying 'Yes,' and going with him, though I cared no more for him than for half a dozen others whom you have seen here. What do you think of that for consideration?"

"That would have been a great wrong both to him and to yourself. I canna think you would ever be so sinful as to give the hand where the heart is withheld. But, my dear, you might mistake. There are more kinds of love than one; at least there are many manifestations of true love; and, at your age, you are no' to expect to have your heart and fancy taken utterly captive by any man. You have too much sense for the like of that."

"Have I?" said Graeme. "I ought to have at my age."

It was growing quite dark--too dark for Mrs Snow to see Graeme's troubled face; but she knew that it was troubled by the sound of her voice, by the weary posture into which she drooped, and by many another token.

"My dear," said her friend, earnestly, "the wild carrying away of the fancy, that it is growing the fas.h.i.+on to call love, is not to be desired at any age. I am not denying that it comes in youth with great power and sweetness, as it came to your father and mother, as I mind well, and as you have heard yourself. But it doesna always bring happiness. The Lord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to their fate; but to many a one such wild captivity of heart is but the forerunner of bitter pain, for which there is no help but just to 'thole it,' as they say."

She paused a moment, but Graeme did not, by the movement of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in reply.

"Mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend gives to another who is worthy, is a far surer foundation for a lifetime of happiness to those who have the fear of G.o.d before their eyes, and it is just possible, my dear, that you may have been mistaken."

"It is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, Janet. But I'll keep all you have been saying in mind, and it may stand me in stead for another time, you ken."

She spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of bitterness and pain that her friend could not bear to hear; and when she raised herself up to go away, as though there were nothing more to be said, Janet laid her hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder, and said,--

"My dear, you are not to be vexed with what I have said. Do you think I can have any wish but to see you useful and happy? You surely dinna doubt me, dear?"

"I am not vexed, Janet," said she. "And who could I trust if I doubted you?"

"And you are not to think that I am meaning any disrespect to your new sister, if I say it is no wonder that I dinna find you quite content here. And when I think of the home that your mother made so happy, I canna but wish to see you in a home of your own."

"But happiness is not the only thing to be desired in this world,"

Graeme forced herself to say.

"No, love, nor the chief thing--that is true," said Mrs Snow.

"And even if it were," continued Graeme, "there is more than one way to look for happiness. It seems to me the chances of happiness are not so unequal in single and married-life as is generally supposed."

"You mayna be the best judge of that," said Mrs Snow, gravely.

"No, I suppose not," said Graeme, with a laugh. "But I have no patience with the nonsense that is talked about old maids. Why! it seems to be thought if a woman reaches thirty, still single, she has failed in life, she has missed the end of her creation, as it were; and by and by people begin to look upon her as an object of pity, not to say of contempt. In this very room I have heard shallow men and women speak in that way of some who are doing a worthy work for G.o.d and man in the world."

"My dear, it is the way with shallow men and women to put things in the wrong places. Why should you be surprised at that?"